Regretfully, Yours Truly

I don’t feel like I’m gliding through life. I feel like I’m dragging myself forward.
Which still counts. It still matters.

I come from an abusive home. I’m not afraid to admit that anymore. It’s my life and my story. I’m not sorry if that makes people (especially my family) uncomfortable. Especially cause I’ve sat in that same discomfort for so long.

I feel numb too. A lot. The other night I thought my body was going to float away so I tried anchoring myself to the bed. Then my body got too soft, and I started scratching to make it feel rough. There are marks and bruises on my thighs now, and not the fun kind. I didn’t completely feel in my body. I didn’t completely feel comfortable either.

And then I got real quiet cause I got real sad. I don’t really have a home anymore. It’s not safe for me to be there, which is strange because sometimes that’s the only place I want to be. But I guess that’s the irony in it, right? The place that triggers me most is where I feel the most comfortable. The home I hate so much is the only place I feel loved. Even if it’s conditional or dependent on the day.

I guess that’s why I feel so out of place in my body. What it wants is the pressure. The tension. I only really felt alive because I was surviving.

So how do I prove I’m alive now?

I’m starting to feel really restless. Like my spirit is itchy. It wants me to move, but I don’t know where to go.

All I keep hearing in my head is

GO GO GO.

Go where?
What feels like home?
I guess I should be asking myself what doesn’t.

And what’s strange is I see the dynamic reflected. In everything. In every person, in every space. I can’t tell if it’s projection or reality. But whatever it is, is starting to make life feel blurry. Like everything’s my fault for feeling this way cause I’m this way.

I feel it at work. I feel the false sense of nurturing, and it makes me feel sick. It makes me feel stuck. Cause in that space I can’t call it out without sounding crazy. Sometimes it makes me forget how competent I actually am at what I can do.

Work feels like home. And sometimes the people there do too.

I feel like I’ve been left out of everyone else’s homecoming.
Deep breaths only go so far.

I start thinking about old solutions.
How about we start counting calories?
How about we start measuring again?
Let’s control something again.
What’s the magic number?
108.

What’s the address?
2432.
Why do the lights flicker and all the floors are up?
Why is everything broken?

The music is too loud.

My dad loves music. Every night. Drunk, always. Oldies booming.
I’m probably his karma. All of his bad doings are probably mine.

I want to love him but he makes it so hard to love him.

For the sake of my own well-being

I refuse to.

I can’t love him anymore.

I’m putting this heavy weight down.

That’s survival.

This healing isn’t loud.

It’s the kind of bravery that costs something.

In it, I hope I find peace.

Thank you.